


Father Big-Nose or how Sherlock tells bedtime stories

by NotJane



Series: Stories from the storyteller in Samarkand's marketplace [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dear Lord it took me an eternity to write this, Father Big-Nose, Just borrowed Jaimi's characters for a spin, M/M, Writting your own family history is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:10:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotJane/pseuds/NotJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is sick and tired of reading the Hobbit every night to the twins. Sherlock intervenes and volunteers a bit of family history. Anthea, apparently, manipulates Mycroft to tell bedtime stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father Big-Nose or how Sherlock tells bedtime stories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaimistoryteller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimistoryteller/gifts).



> For the brilliant Jaimi, I shall never forget the great story you wrote for me. Sorry this took such a long time, but internet connection in the remote villages of Algeria is hard to find, bisides I'm great at speeches and sotrytelling like Mycroft, not writing. I hope this works for you

"Dawn take you all, and be stone to you!" said a voice that sounded like William's. But it wasn't. For just at that moment the light came over the hill, and there was a mighty twitter in the branches. William never spoke for he stood turned to stone as he stooped; and Bert and Tom were stuck like rocks as they looked at him. And there they stand to this day, all alone, unless the birds perch on them; for trolls, as you probably know, must be underground before dawn, or they go back to the stuff of the mountains they are made of, and never move again.” At this both Asteria and Cyrus chuckled softly.  
Before John could continue with the twins’ bedtime story Sherlock decided it was time to intervene, from where he had perched just inside the door:  
“The trolls that were turned to stone story, yet again, John? Honestly, if they are so fascinated with turning into stone maybe we should change the story before they start parroting each word, instead of trying to learn to read and reason like they are supposed to,” huffed Sherlock, amusement clear in his baritone.  
“Oh, is that so Mr. I-know-better?” John shot him a smirk above the twins’ heads. “Why, go ahead there genius, the floor is all yours. If you say we should change the story, then by all means, change it. Lord knows how many times I’ve had to read this book already. Even though “The Hobbit” was my favorite, I’m beginning to loathe it slowly and surely.”  
Sherlock paused for a second, then went to stand where John’s feet were dangling over the end of the sofa.  
“Well I can try, you know this is not something I’ve ever done, but as you always tell me maybe it is time I started sharing some family history with them,” mused Sherlock, one hand absently mussing his curls even further. “So what do you think should I tell you an old story that has been passed in my family for generations?”  
The twins immediately nodded their heads enthusiastically. John motioned for Sherlock to sit alongside him. Sherlock gave the skull on the mantle a thoughtful look and began:  
“There were once two kings who were neighbors and so jealous of each other that they declared war. Several battles had already turned disadvantageous to one of them because he could not direct his army as he chose, having been frustrated in his maneuvers by the windings of a wide river that had no bridge. To observe the movements of the enemy, one of his officers one day climbed to the top of an oak tree that dominated the large forest. As he looked in all directions, he saw quite close to him a group of children who were playing around a fire that was lighted in a clearing, and almost immediately he saw come among them a man who had a very long nose, so long that it had no end.  
“Ah,” cried the children, interrupting their play, “here is Father Big-Nose.”  
And they hastened toward him.  
“Hello, Father Big-Nose.”  
“Hello, my children.”  
“What news do you bring us, Father Big-Nose?”  
“Oh, children, I do have some news for you.”  
“Tell it, Father Big-Nose.”  
“I’ll tell it, but don’t talk about it. There are two kings who are making war on each other. One of them will always be beaten because he can’t cross the river, for there’s no bridge. And yet in this forest not far from us is found the Red Tree. One would merely have to cut a branch and place it on the water of the river to see a lovely bridge formed at once. But you mustn’t tell.  
Crick, crack!  
He who lets this truth be known  
Shall forthwith be turned to stone.”  
The officer had heard enough. He came down from his observation post and set out in search of the Red Tree, which he discovered without any trouble. He cut off a branch and carried it away to go find the king.  
“Sire, tomorrow night I will build a bridge on the river. Let your army be ready to cross. Don’t ask me anything more.”  
“If you do what you say,” replied the king, “you shall have a good reward.”  
Suddenly an unbidden memory of Moriarty’s little speech some years ago: “If you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes," came to the forefront of John’s thoughts and he suppressed a shiver. He would have to be careful lest his ever-watchful children caught that. Thankfully both Asteria and Cyrus were completely enthralled in Sherlock’s tale and were watching him with wonder.  
“All the officer had to do was to place the branch on the water. It expanded and lengthened in the shape of a bridge and the army passed, surprised the enemies, and executed its first victory. But the others didn’t consider themselves beaten and they regained the advantage within a few days.  
The officer had the idea of going back to his oak tree, and as soon as he was on the highest branch he looked toward the clearing and saw the children assembled around the fire. Almost at once the man with the big nose arrived.  
“Here’s Father Big-Nose,” shouted the children. “Hello, Father Big-Nose!”  
“Hello, my children.”  
“What news do you bring us, Father Big-Nose?”  
“I do have some news.”  
“Tell it, Father Big-Nose.”  
“I’ll tell it, but don’t talk about it. The king found a way of building a bridge across the river, but his army will be beaten anyhow. And yet in the forest not far from here is found the Hollow Tree. A small portion of the dust contained within it thrown in the eyes of the enemy would be sufficient to blind and smother them. But you mustn’t tell it.  
Crick, crack!  
He who lets this truth be known  
Shall forthwith be turned to stone.”  
The officer, happy to know such a secret, left his oak tree and went in search of the Hollow Tree. He ended by finding it and filled his pockets with the powder it contained.  
Then he went and spoke to the king. “Sire, do not fear the attack of the enemy. Offer battle tomorrow and put me in the first rank. See that the wind is favorable, and I will be responsible for the day.”  
“May it be done as you desire,” said the king. “If you succeed you shall have a good reward.”  
The next day they were engaged in combat, and, as the officer threw dust from the Hollow Tree in the wind, big clouds of smoke were formed, which asphyxiated the enemy soldiers. Many of them fell as if struck by lightning. The others took flight, pressed closely by the officer and his men. Not one in a thousand remained, so that their king was obliged to capitulate, and a peace treaty was signed.  
The officer, who was the hero of the day, was directed to come before the king and was complimented by him.  
“I promised you a good reward,” he said. “I can’t do better than give you my daughter in marriage.”  
As beautiful as the day, that king’s daughter! And the officer was already in love with her.  
Awaiting the day fixed for the marriage, he spent all his time in the palace, taking walks and attending entertainments with his fiancée.  
One time she said to him, “How did you go about building a bridge across the river? And what is that powder that you used so well in battle?”  
“Ah, Princess, I will tell you all. To observe the enemy I had climbed up into the highest tree of the forest when my gaze fell on a fire that was burning in a near-by clearing, and around the fire a group of children were playing. A moment later I saw come to them a man who had a long nose, and I overheard their conversation.”  
“And what did they say?”  
“This, Princess …”  
And the officer revealed the secrets that he had learned. But scarcely had he ended his story than he was changed into stone. The princess, horrified, called for help, and all the people in the palace dashed forward, including the officer’s uncle.  
“Ah,” he cried, “what has happened to my nephew?”  
The princess told what she had just heard and seen. Immediately she, too, was transformed into a statue of stone.”  
“And this is how Mycroft and I were taught when we were young to never tell secrets,” mouthed Sherlock to John, who just shook in amusement.  
Sherlock took on a more somber tone and continued:  
“Sorrow was great in the court. The king ordered the two victims put in the church on each side of the main altar, and all the kingdom went into mourning.  
Meanwhile the officer’s uncle couldn’t stop thinking of the strange story the princess had told. He was overcome with a desire to see this mysterious Big-Nose. Not being able to resist any longer, he went into the forest, arrived at the foot of the tall oak tree, climbed from branch to branch, and found that the princess had spoken nothing but truth. The fire was burning in the clearing, the children were playing around it, and the man with the long nose did not delay in making his appearance.  
“Hello, Father Big-Nose,” cried the children.  
“Hello, my children.”  
“What news today, Father Big-Nose?”  
“I have some, my children.”  
“Well, tell us.”  
“I will, but you mustn’t repeat it. When I told you about the king who couldn’t build a bridge across the river nor win a victory, one of his officers climbed a tree near here. He heard my words and he took advantage of them to build a bridge and to beat the enemy by means of the powder from the Hollow Tree. And the king to reward him promised him his daughter in marriage. But he was not able to keep my secrets. He revealed everything to the princess and he was changed into stone. And the princess, having repeated his words, came to the same end. The whole kingdom is in mourning. And yet in the midst of the forest there exists a spring covered with ice. One merely has to raise up the ice to take a bit of water from the spring and pour it on the stone fiancés for them to be restored to their natural life. But it mustn’t be told.  
Crick, crack!  
He who lets this truth be known  
Shall forthwith be turned to stone.”  
The officer’s uncle didn’t stay in the tree long. He hastened to go in search of the spring, which he discovered within a few hours. Before the end of the day he was entering the church with the precious water, eager to try it out. No sooner had he poured a few drops on his nephew than the officer flew into his arms thanking him, and the princess did the same a few moments later.  
Joy was universal and they resumed the preparations for the marriage.  
Several times the king had interrogated the officer’s uncle concerning the means that he had used with so much success to restore his daughter to life, but he refused to reveal a secret that might have such terrible consequences. Questioned every day, however, he feared the secret might escape him.  
“If I were to return to the big oak,” he thought, “I might perhaps come into possession of some other secret that I could use to my advantage.”  
So one day he climbed again into the tree and turned his eyes toward the clearing. Just at this moment the children, assembled around the fire, were greeting the arrival of the man with the big nose.  
“Hello, Father Big-Nose.”  
“Hello, my children.”  
“What’s new?”  
“I have something new, my children. I’m going to tell you, but you mustn’t talk about it. You know that the officer and the king’s daughter had been transformed into stone. The officer’s uncle, hidden in the tree, heard what I told you concerning this matter and he took advantage of it and went to get water from the spring, so that his nephew and the princess are today alive in flesh and bone as before. But the uncle, pressed to tell how he did it, can’t keep the secret. He’s going to let it escape and will be changed into stone. And yet on the edge of the river I know an Orange Tree. One would merely have to pick an orange, eat it, and thereafter make a hole in the trunk and whisper into it what he heard me say. His word would follow the trunk, go down in the roots, and be lost in the river. Then he could repeat them aloud without fear of being changed into stone. But this mustn’t be told either.  
Crick, crack!  
He who lets this truth be known  
Shall forthwith be turned to stone.”  
The uncle strained his ears to listen: nothing was more urgent than to run toward the river. He found the Orange Tree and followed Big-Nose’s instructions carefully. And after that he came to the palace and advised the king about what had happened without any bad results. The marriage was performed the next week. If I had to tell you all of the enjoyments which took place on that occasion, it would take me until tomorrow.” Said Sherlock while booping gently each Asteria’s and Cyrus’s noses. “What I can tell you is that the bride and groom were happy and that peace and abundance reigned for a long time in the country.” Finished softly Sherlock, just as the twins eyes closed in slumber.  
“I had no idea that you were an amazing storyteller as well, but considering the fact that you are brilliant at everything else, it figures,” huffed in amusement John and accompanied the last statement with an exaggerated eye roll for a good measure.  
“It’s not that simple, John. I’ve simply grown with all kinds of stories, grandmother may have been French, and yes I know their predilection for overly sentimental and dramatic tales about fairies, no need to roll your eyes at me, but she always told the most amazing stories. Then there was that summer I spent in the storyteller’s tent in the marketplace in Samarkand while Mycroft was attending his first political conference. Besides, I told you in the beginning it was a bit of a family history”  
“Yes, I did wonder about that.”  
“Well, both Mycroft and I were always partial to the Father Big-Nose story, even before grandmere told us its significance,” smirked smugly Sherlock.  
“You mean to tell me that your robot of a brother liked stories when he was little?” asked John incredulously.  
“Yes, he did and his wife, who has been trailing him like a shadow for longer than I remember, cannot stop teasing him about the fact that he managed to conceal this secret for so many years,” came Sherlock’s silky reply.  
“Don’t tell me that Anthea, that conniving spectacled cobra, has managed to rope Mycroft in bedtime storytelling duty for the children,” giggled John.  
“Of course, she has, she is fiercely smart and is almost better at manipulating Mycroft now, than I am. And besides, she is nomophobic, do you seriously consider that she will be able to put down that surgically-implanted-in-her-hand-BlackBerry for long enough, to tell an actual bedtime story. She even sleeps with the damn thing clutched in her hand, leaving an imprint atop Mycroft’s chest, which is the reason why he is so irritable in the morning,” downright gloated Sherlock at the mention of his brothers discomfort.  
“And here I was thinking he was grumpy because you always find a way to do something atrocious to his cake.”  
“I do, don’t I?” grinned Sherlock. “Anyway grandmere told us that our family was actually descended from the princess and the officer in the story. She claimed that the water from the spring was not strong enough to remove the aftereffects of being turned into stone, so that is why all their descendants had “stone” faces and hearts. And that is why Mycroft grew to pride in his ability to remain stone faced no matter the situation.”  
“And let me guess that is how you decided that your heart was made from stone, caring is not an advantage, and you are a freak that cannot be loved?” Interrupted him John, sounding detached, if a bit sad.  
“Well yes, why I wouldn’t think that, it was true enough and besides, grandmere would never lie, well at least I thought so until I met you,” said Sherlock before kissing John.

**Author's Note:**

> Appologies for the delay once more. I shall endeavour to write one more story that Sherlock learned from a storyteller in Samarkand that relays to his love of John one day.


End file.
